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Monday, April 28, 2014

One

Two Birds with One Stone

One novel, two tomes. There are always two characters, such different personalities, such different paths, different narratives, yet whose stories and steps intertwine creating one. Necessary to each other, these two join forces to greater influence their own expectations and prospects.

One novel, two lovers, one destiny. Two merging into one. Or two sisters supporting each other, nurturing the other's passion, not one but two happy endings. Two stories, two tomes gently interwoven into one tale. Romeo and Juliet. Elizabeth and Jane or
Elinor and Marianne. Hansel and Gretel. Rose Red and Snow White. Cherry and Merry or Martin and Mark or even Tom and John all in two tomes, one favorite novel.

Peanut butter and jelly. Macaroni and cheese. Bacon and eggs. Coffee and donuts. Milk and cookies. Spaghetti and meatballs. Tomato soup and grilled cheese. Two just make the perfect one.

First

Two friends, one blog.
Two visions melting into one. Plated Stories.

One-year anniversary. Paper.

To think that Plated Stories was created just one year ago. A very short year ago yet how fast one year rushes by. One year of posts, one a week; one year of themes, one a week. What does it inspire, one single word? Images, emotions, memories? She goes her way, I go mine, two reactions, two outlooks, two landscapes, and one week later the two single visions are merged, fused, blended into one.

One theme. One story. One composition. A collage of words and images, text and photos and one single recipe. Our one desire is to stimulate our creativity, enliven and divert our week of work and family, shake up the image of a food blog. Our single goal is to transmit a feeling or nudge a memory. Influence our readers' own imaginations.

Sitting in the airport after one weekend in San Francisco one year ago, we put our two heads together and came up with one concept, a joint project, one simple objective. And Plated Stories was born.

One year later and we are still here.

Dining alone, dinner for one.

Alone. Al-one. A night or two alone, eating on one's own, does one a world of good. The quiet. The calm. A single bowl of cereal and a piece of fruit. Pasta for one. Stop at the Indian or Vietnamese take out and order… one of each. For one. Carry it home, no juggling with the microwave to ensure that everyone's food is hot all at once. Nope. All alone, one dish at a time. And a single plate, fork, knife and spoon to wash. And one can watch any movie, any bad television show one wants to watch, no argument, no compromise. Or one can enjoy the luxury of switching channels as often as one likes. Fork in one hand, remote in the other, surfing.
One bed. One person. An extravagance.

Until missing the other one. The husband.

One in a Million

The one. The hot rush of love at first sight. Does love at first sight even exist? Is it even possible? Debatable. But there is one thing I do know. That the second I laid eyes on him I knew that he was the one.

Je t'aime un peu, beaucoup, passionnement, à la folie.

He loves me, he loves me not.

One in a million.

Noodle N° 1

We slip through the lobby of that grand palace hotel and out into the winter white of this city of lovers. One weekend in Paris. The cold has chased away the crowds leaving the streets silent and all our own. We have each chosen one special museum to share with the other, then spend the rest of the day wending our way through this city we know so well, seeing the monuments and shops as if for the first time, Paris in her new winter attire. Excited yet chilled to the bone, we push our way into our favorite little Asian Soup place for lunch, pulling off gloves, hats and scarves in the oh-so welcome steamy heat that washes over us as we step inside. We slide into the last empty table, elbow to elbow with our neighbors, and shout out our order above the noise and bustle of the crowd. It's as if all of Paris has magically materialized and joined us for lunch. One huge steaming bowl of noodle soup is set before each one of us and we are revitalized, the heat once again coursing through our bodies before we plunge back out onto the street and into the frosty afternoon, the rawness biting into our cheeks and nipping at our noses. Hugging each other in an attempt to keep out the cold, we continue on our way, strolling as only lovers in Paris do, the misty whiteness wrapped around us like an ermine stole. We take in the elegant wrought ironwork of the balconies, the heavy stone sculptures scattered throughout the city, the gaudy holiday shop window displays, the monuments, the Eiffel Tower, the Obelisk, disappearing up into the whiteness of the heavens and fall in love with Paris all over again.

When I eat alone I rarely cook something from scratch, I use leftovers. Those small leftovers that have a tendency to remain in the fridge because they are too small to feed a whole family but too much to actually throw on the compost or give to the dog. That kind of leftovers are my delight!

I never eat alone anymore, just a fast lunch made of leftovers at work...is one better than two or is two better than one? One will never know, too :)Happy anniversaryPotato salad is one of my favoritesIsabel

There is something to be valued in time with one's self even though, no, I wouldn't part with my husband. Lovely words and images always. Thanks for sharing Paris in the winter with me -- I know I'd love it. And Happy First Year to Plated Stories. You both are amazing.